Sunday, April 6, 2025 – Lent 5
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
John 12:1-8
Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”
We all have our families of origin – those people to whom, for better or worse, we are connected by blood and marriage. But we may also have our chosen families, those select few who are as dear to us as any relative could be.
Jesus, too, had a family of origin – his mother and his brothers and his sisters. But Jesus also had a chosen family. You might say that his disciples were part of that. But you would most certainly say that Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, were his chosen family.
They lived in Bethany, about two miles from Jerusalem. And one day, there was trouble in Bethany. So, Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus that their brother, and his dear friend, Lazarus was very ill. This was not only a health crisis, but an economic crisis, as Lazarus, a male, was the only breadwinner.
Yet, despite the urgency of their message, Jesus inexplicably delayed his coming. Jesus delayed. And Lazarus died. When, four days later, Jesus finally made the short journey to Bethany, the sisters’ grief was compounded by the anger of a deep disappointment. How could the One who healed strangers not come to heal this one he loved?
Jesus tried to console the sisters by promising that they were about to see the glory of God. But who can understand such esoteric talk when you’re grief-stricken? And because Jesus saw their grief, he too grieved. And he began to cry. This, for me, is one of the most beautiful sentiments expressed in the entire New Testament: Jesus wept. God wept. His heart was broken, just like theirs, just like ours.
And then, through those tears, he shouted “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus did.
Now it is some weeks later. And the tables are turned and it’s Jesus who is facing death. The religious authorities were out to get him precisely because he had raised Lazarus from the dead. And this dead man had one heck of a tale to tell about the rabbi of Nazareth. It was enough to cause an insurrection. So Jesus had to go.
Still, Jesus sat down to eat one last meal with his chosen family. And in the midst of that meal, Mary got up and left the table. She returned with a box of pure nard -– a very expensive perfume with a fragrance somewhere between mint and ginseng. It was made from a little plant that grew in the Himalayas in far off India, and then was brought to Palestine via camel caravan. Thus, its great cost.
Nard was commonly used to anoint the body of a dead person, in order to mask the smell of decay. Likely Mary had some left over from her brother’s burial.
So, there she was, kneeling in front of Jesus and anointing his feet with this very expensive perfume. And 2000 years later, and a cultural universe away, we read this account with a certain amount of sentimentality. And we talk about Mary’s utter devotion to the Lord, how she poured out the very best that she had. And all of that is true.
But on that day, what Mary did caused a scandal. You see, in that world, it was scandalous for an unmarried woman to even be in the same room with the men. And then she uncovered and let down her hair – which an honorable woman never did except in front of her husband. And then she touched Jesus’s feet, which was seen as an act of intimacy. And finally, she used her untied hair to dry his feet. And that, frankly, was beyond the pale.
But for Judas, what was far more offensive than any of that behavior was the waste of money. And so, he protested: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” It’s a really, really good question. 300 denarii was basically a year’s wage. Imagine the good that this church could do with an extra $79,000 a year, which is the average annual wage in Connecticut? Talk about an animated Annual Meeting!
But then John, who wrote this Gospel, lets us in on a little secret: “(Judas) said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.”
Did you know that this detail about Judas stealing from the common purse is only found in John’s Gospel? It’s as if John wants to really underscore the kind of person Judas was, so as to leave no room for sympathy or nuance or understanding.
Now, when this lesson has come up in the past, I’ve almost always preached about Mary, because she’s the obvious choice. She loved Jesus with absolutely everything she had. And besides that, anytime we can lift up a strong and faithful woman in Scripture, we should. Women have been given the bum’s rush in church history since about the second century. So, we when we get to this story, we should at least pause and pay our respects.
But this time around, I found myself wondering about Judas – despite what John already told me about him. And he intrigued me, despite what I am supposed to know about him.
We all think we know a lot about him. It’s a closed case, right? And so it makes perfect sense that in certain Mediterranean and Latin American countries, it’s a Holy Week tradition to make an effigy of Judas that is publically hanged on Good Friday and then burned on Easter Sunday evening. Before burning, some people beat the Judas figure with sticks. They kick and mangle it. And sometimes this effigy is simply referred to as “the Jew.”
Of course, we recoil from this kind of behavior. We think it primitive. It’s about as far away from respectable New England Protestant reserve as one can get. But the underlying motivation – well, that’s a little closer to home. Scapegoating plays well everywhere. It’s a temptation as old as we are. It’s just that the objects of our wrath change to suit our needs, or the needs of those seeking power or control. We would never hang and burn a Judas effigy. But would we remain silent as blame is placed on trans folks and immigrants and others for the troubles of the world? Would we lump people we don’t even know, or care to know, into disposable categories because we don’t approve of the way they think or act or vote or believe or love?
And that is why I am not so sure that what John had to say about Judas is all that we need to know about Judas. Because we are all more than our worst moments, our worst mistakes, our worst impulses. We are more than our prejudices and fears and anger and cruelty.
Which makes me wonder: who was he before that fateful kiss of betrayal in the Garden of Gethsemane? Who was he before he began to steal from the treasury? What light did Jesus first see in him that caused Jesus to say: “Follow me?”
It’s easy to love Mary, because we want to be like her. And it’s easy to hate Judas, because we fear that we are like him. And here’s the thing: we are. We are sometimes Mary. And we are sometimes Judas. And it’s all very complicated. And it’s all very human.
But in a few moments, you will hear these words of invitation to communion, “The first time Jesus sat down to this meal, among those gathered there was one who would doubt him, one who would deny him, one who would betray him, and they would all leave him alone before that night was over—and he knew it. Still he sat down and ate with them.”
And still he sits down and eats with us: even when we doubt; even when we deny; even when we betray: we are his. We are simply two sides of the same coin. But that coin belongs to Christ. And we are his.
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
John 12:1-8
Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”
We all have our families of origin – those people to whom, for better or worse, we are connected by blood and marriage. But we may also have our chosen families, those select few who are as dear to us as any relative could be.
Jesus, too, had a family of origin – his mother and his brothers and his sisters. But Jesus also had a chosen family. You might say that his disciples were part of that. But you would most certainly say that Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, were his chosen family.
They lived in Bethany, about two miles from Jerusalem. And one day, there was trouble in Bethany. So, Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus that their brother, and his dear friend, Lazarus was very ill. This was not only a health crisis, but an economic crisis, as Lazarus, a male, was the only breadwinner.
Yet, despite the urgency of their message, Jesus inexplicably delayed his coming. Jesus delayed. And Lazarus died. When, four days later, Jesus finally made the short journey to Bethany, the sisters’ grief was compounded by the anger of a deep disappointment. How could the One who healed strangers not come to heal this one he loved?
Jesus tried to console the sisters by promising that they were about to see the glory of God. But who can understand such esoteric talk when you’re grief-stricken? And because Jesus saw their grief, he too grieved. And he began to cry. This, for me, is one of the most beautiful sentiments expressed in the entire New Testament: Jesus wept. God wept. His heart was broken, just like theirs, just like ours.
And then, through those tears, he shouted “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus did.
Now it is some weeks later. And the tables are turned and it’s Jesus who is facing death. The religious authorities were out to get him precisely because he had raised Lazarus from the dead. And this dead man had one heck of a tale to tell about the rabbi of Nazareth. It was enough to cause an insurrection. So Jesus had to go.
Still, Jesus sat down to eat one last meal with his chosen family. And in the midst of that meal, Mary got up and left the table. She returned with a box of pure nard -– a very expensive perfume with a fragrance somewhere between mint and ginseng. It was made from a little plant that grew in the Himalayas in far off India, and then was brought to Palestine via camel caravan. Thus, its great cost.
Nard was commonly used to anoint the body of a dead person, in order to mask the smell of decay. Likely Mary had some left over from her brother’s burial.
So, there she was, kneeling in front of Jesus and anointing his feet with this very expensive perfume. And 2000 years later, and a cultural universe away, we read this account with a certain amount of sentimentality. And we talk about Mary’s utter devotion to the Lord, how she poured out the very best that she had. And all of that is true.
But on that day, what Mary did caused a scandal. You see, in that world, it was scandalous for an unmarried woman to even be in the same room with the men. And then she uncovered and let down her hair – which an honorable woman never did except in front of her husband. And then she touched Jesus’s feet, which was seen as an act of intimacy. And finally, she used her untied hair to dry his feet. And that, frankly, was beyond the pale.
But for Judas, what was far more offensive than any of that behavior was the waste of money. And so, he protested: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” It’s a really, really good question. 300 denarii was basically a year’s wage. Imagine the good that this church could do with an extra $79,000 a year, which is the average annual wage in Connecticut? Talk about an animated Annual Meeting!
But then John, who wrote this Gospel, lets us in on a little secret: “(Judas) said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.”
Did you know that this detail about Judas stealing from the common purse is only found in John’s Gospel? It’s as if John wants to really underscore the kind of person Judas was, so as to leave no room for sympathy or nuance or understanding.
Now, when this lesson has come up in the past, I’ve almost always preached about Mary, because she’s the obvious choice. She loved Jesus with absolutely everything she had. And besides that, anytime we can lift up a strong and faithful woman in Scripture, we should. Women have been given the bum’s rush in church history since about the second century. So, we when we get to this story, we should at least pause and pay our respects.
But this time around, I found myself wondering about Judas – despite what John already told me about him. And he intrigued me, despite what I am supposed to know about him.
We all think we know a lot about him. It’s a closed case, right? And so it makes perfect sense that in certain Mediterranean and Latin American countries, it’s a Holy Week tradition to make an effigy of Judas that is publically hanged on Good Friday and then burned on Easter Sunday evening. Before burning, some people beat the Judas figure with sticks. They kick and mangle it. And sometimes this effigy is simply referred to as “the Jew.”
Of course, we recoil from this kind of behavior. We think it primitive. It’s about as far away from respectable New England Protestant reserve as one can get. But the underlying motivation – well, that’s a little closer to home. Scapegoating plays well everywhere. It’s a temptation as old as we are. It’s just that the objects of our wrath change to suit our needs, or the needs of those seeking power or control. We would never hang and burn a Judas effigy. But would we remain silent as blame is placed on trans folks and immigrants and others for the troubles of the world? Would we lump people we don’t even know, or care to know, into disposable categories because we don’t approve of the way they think or act or vote or believe or love?
And that is why I am not so sure that what John had to say about Judas is all that we need to know about Judas. Because we are all more than our worst moments, our worst mistakes, our worst impulses. We are more than our prejudices and fears and anger and cruelty.
Which makes me wonder: who was he before that fateful kiss of betrayal in the Garden of Gethsemane? Who was he before he began to steal from the treasury? What light did Jesus first see in him that caused Jesus to say: “Follow me?”
It’s easy to love Mary, because we want to be like her. And it’s easy to hate Judas, because we fear that we are like him. And here’s the thing: we are. We are sometimes Mary. And we are sometimes Judas. And it’s all very complicated. And it’s all very human.
But in a few moments, you will hear these words of invitation to communion, “The first time Jesus sat down to this meal, among those gathered there was one who would doubt him, one who would deny him, one who would betray him, and they would all leave him alone before that night was over—and he knew it. Still he sat down and ate with them.”
And still he sits down and eats with us: even when we doubt; even when we deny; even when we betray: we are his. We are simply two sides of the same coin. But that coin belongs to Christ. And we are his.
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